


Downing Street

by fickle_fics



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, grey white
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:19:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fickle_fics/pseuds/fickle_fics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a classic though, isn't it? Being shagged on your (ex)boss's desk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downing Street

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink-bingo square 'spaces, settings and scenes'

“I used to have this fantasy, about you fucking me on your big shiny desk at Downing Street.”

Malcolm looks down at Grey, her head on his chest, eyes closed, and if she wasn’t saying things like that he might be fooled into thinking she was sweet and innocent.

“That why your typing was so shite, aye? Too busy thinking about me shagging you to focus on what you were meant to be doing?”

He nails dig into his thigh for just a second. “You got me back in enough times.”

“Aye well maybe you weren’t the only one thinking about fucking you on my desk.”

She moves quite suddenly, looking down at him, arms either side of his shoulders. “Bollocks.”

He raises a challenging eyebrow.

“Bollocks!” she repeats. “You never fancied me when I was working with you.”

He actually scoffs at that. “Darling, you have no what went on inside my head when you were at DoSAC.”

“I believe the term ‘like a pissed Bambi on ice’ was used on one occasion.”

“You know how when they’re little boys pulls girls’ hair because they like them, it’s like that.”

“Your abuse was because you fancied me?”

“Course.”

“You must want to fuck the entire party then,” she leans in, kisses him. “Nice try, darling. I know it’s just that you’re kind of a twat.”

“You know that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Anyway, carry on, in vivid detail ideally.”

She moves away again, resumes her position with her head on his chest.

“Go on,” he presses, stroking her hair gently. It’s funny how bold Grey is in so many ways, the things she comes out with that manage to stun even him into silence for a while, but there are things she can’t say. As if she’s worried he’ll judge her, as if she can’t talk about what’s really on her mind.

“Everyone’s gone home, apart from us, because you’re working late, just like always and there’s this thought in the back of my mind, maybe tonight, maybe tonight’s the night he decides to make a move.”

He shifts slightly down the bed, slips his arm around her as she twists round so he’s behind her.

“You pick me up-”

“You hate being picked up,” he points out before he can stop himself. He remembers Ollie trying it once, and limping away after she kicked him in the shin. Happy times.

“Mitigating circumstances.”

“No bending you over and taking you from behind then?” he asks, the visuals already swimming in his mind’s eye.

“My fantasy, Malc.”

“Not even sometimes?” he asks, voice low directly into her ear.

She’s silent for a moment and Malcolm smiles knowingly against the back of her neck.

“Sometimes,” she concedes. “But I like seeing your face.” She wonders if he’s aware of that, or if he thinks her issue with being taken from behind is because it’s a bit objectifying, which is it, but that’s got nothing to do with it, she just likes being able to see the look on his face when they’re fucking, she likes not having to pretend anymore, likes knowing it‘s _him_ she‘s in bed with..

“Masochist.”

**

Grey’s phone rings - Malcolm’s name flashing up on the screen and she answers it instantly.

“I need to ask you a favour, darling,” he says.

“Good afternoon to you too, Malcolm. What kind of favour? A put on something made of PVC kind of favour?”

There’s a pause and Grey can’t help but smile at the apparent distraction she’s provided.

“So this favour?”

“Sam needs to take some time off.”

“Working with you everyday’s finally got too much for her? I can’t say I’m surprised, but where do I fit in here?”

“Very fucking funny. But to answer your question, I was wondering if you fancied coming back to Downing Street for a while?”

“Sorry?”

“Well I know you, I trust you not to fuck things up or leak anything. I know you’re competent and I know you’re not going to run off into the disabled loo for a cry when I get all shouty. Plus my name might be blacklisted by a number of the more trusted and reliable temp agencies.”

“You want me to come in and do Sam’s job? You want me to be your PA?”

“Just for a week.”

“You don’t think that’s…I dunno crossing some sort of line. I mean isn’t it going to look really fucking bad if the whole us thing comes out? Me having worked for you, like this?”

“It’s five days, Grey. It’ll be fine. If you want to do it I mean. You‘re always talking about wanting to come back.”

“And you’re always saying how I couldn’t be trusted, how I’d spend all my time trying to get you to fuck me on your desk.“

“Aye well I actually trust you to be a little more professional that that. And like I say it’ll be five days. I’m sure even you can resist causing a sex scandal for that long.“

“You sure this isn’t just an excuse to tell me what to do?”

“Well it did seem to work for you when you were interning. We both know how much it turns you on when I’m all alpha male, but no. Look Grey if you don‘t want to it it‘s fine. I can find someone, I‘m sure. Fuck maybe I‘ll just get Terri to cover.”

“Terri? Do you really think that’s a good idea? Wait, are you trying to fucking trick me into agreeing because you know I’d never let you subject yourself to that much Coverly?”

“Maybe, is that gonna work?”

“Yeah, yeah okay. I’ll do it. When is it?”

“A week on Monday, I need to you at 8.30, on the dot, looking like a proper adult.”

“You ask for a lot, don’t you? Fine. I am gonna see you before then though, aren’t I?”

“I expect so, you know me, always turning up at the flat eventually. I‘ll see you soon, darling.”

***

It’s been a couple of years since Grey was at Downing Street, and somehow that was different because she was part of the party, almost part of the government and quite often she’d go in the car with Malcolm or Sam would be waiting for her, a relieved look at on her face at the sight of her. It feels more imposing some how, after so much time away and she’s terribly aware of the policemen and exactly what the building means. It’s important - the centre of British government, probably the most famous _real_ street in England, and it always felt important, hugely respectable, a place she sort of felt like she didn’t belong in, which she didn’t. She was only ever in there after hours, when it was all but empty and only she, Sam and Malcolm remained. Now though it’s first thing in the morning and there are people, _ministers_ everywhere, people she remembers from when she was just an intern who don’t even look at her now, because a week is a long time in politics, so two years is a fucking life time. But that’s fine, actually it’s good. She doesn’t want to be recognised, she wants to be incognito, to just get the job done, to be professional in a way she often didn’t manage in DoSAC. It’s exciting though, and she’s trying not to think about the conversations she’s had with Malcolm, or what coming here used to mean - spending time with Malcolm, getting to see him when he wasn’t shouting and threatening people, although she always found that far too arousing. And now she’s here and he isn’t just her sort of boss she was lusting after. He’s hers now, just like she’s his whether she’s willing to admit that or not. She isn’t sure how well she’ll be able to pretend, that’s the thing. If someone will notice the way she looks at him, if someone might just work out what’s going on in her mind. Mind you she could play it off easily enough, just because she tends to look at Malcolm like she wants to tear his clothes off doesn’t mean anything, plus she knows Malcolm he’s far too good at hiding every feeling he’s ever felt, with the exception of anger. No one would know what was going on, probably not even if they walked in on them shagging. Only she can’t think about that. Can’t think about being in his office, or his desk. She’s here to do a job, to be professional, and even if there is a thought in the back of her mind that this is all some kind of test, she isn’t going to fail. She’s going to be a proper professional adult.

It’s more difficult to concentrate with Grey in the office then Malcolm had expected. She’s being perfectly professional - more professional that she ever was when she was here before, and perhaps that’s part of the problem, the way she’s so detached, like they didn’t spend the night before tangled up in each others limbs and it’s driving him ever so slightly crazy. She walks in every so often, brings in tea and coffee for him and various advisors and ministers, hands him papers and waits for him to sign them, smiles politely and asks if there’s anything he needs. That’s not all it is though. He’s seen her in her work clothes possibly hundreds of times before, but there’s something different about it now. The way her skirt shifts when she moves, and he’s sure he got a glimpse of stocking earlier, just a flash as she’d turned away too quickly and it had flared outwards. She’s even wearing heels - making full use of the hours of training he’d persuaded Sam to give her because she was a fucking liability before she’d had it. It feels like it might have been a bit of a mistake now though, as his eyes follow the curve of her calves, the way she walks in them, because she doesn’t wear heels at the flat, or in her old job and he can’t help but wonder if this is all some evil plan on her part.

“Anything else you need, Malcolm?” she asks, entering with a pile of faxes and documents for him to read. It’s already 5.30pm, he should be contemplating going home like everyone else but he should at least look over the items he’s been sent. She moves closer, sets them down on his desk, stands just a little too close to him and he can smell her perfume. She’s redone her make-up, ready for the tube ride home or for some other reason? He tries not to remember what she once told him - _I always used to think about you fucking me on your desk in Downing Street._ He closes his eyes for a second, tries to refocus, redirect the blood aiming for his groin back up to his brain.

“Could you get me another coffee, darling? Then you can get off if you like?”

“Get off?” her voice is quiet, low, as if she’s worried someone might hear her.

And there she is again, Grey, all filthy mind and innuendo. 

He looks up at her and smiles, glances at the desk. This wasn’t part of the plan. It wasn’t why he asked her to do this, he really did just want her help and he knew she could do with the money, because she won’t take it from him regardless of how meaningless it is to him.

“I meant you could go home. If you want. I’ll only be another couple of hours if you want to go to the flat.” He tries to sound like he means it, but it his head he’s already clearing his desk and lifting her up onto it.

She looks over at the door, most people have gone home, or will be doing very soon. They work normal hours while Malcolm shuts himself in his office and works too much and comes home too late. This is the longest she’s spend with him since they got together. “I like my interpretation better.”

“Aye _well_.”

“I’m not going home, Malc. What’s the point? To sit around and wait for you? I might as well stay here, do something productive.” She moves in a little closer, leans over him as if she’s looking at something on his computer screen and his mind short wires, no idea quite what to do with her so close. “I think I should stay until everyone’s gone,” she says.

He reaches out, touches her side, slips his hand beneath the material of her top and strokes her side. “You really are trying to cause a sex scandal, aren’t you, darling?”

“Not trying, accidentally causing?” she suggests as she straightens up. 

“Just…go back to Sam’s desk. Check emails, send faxes, do the typing. Just don’t go home, aye?”

“Anything you want, Mr Tucker,” she says as she moves away. It isn‘t going to happen, him touching her was just a monetarily blip and the banter, well that was just them. It isn‘t really going to happen. “Oh and there’s some stuff that needs signing, it’s on the top. Shout me when it’s done so I can fax it back out.”

“Are you making excuses to come back in here?”

“Well I still need to get you your coffee, so no. I’m just being good at my job. I’m hoping you’ll write me a reference for the junior researcher position back in DoSAC,”

He looks at her for a moment, not sure if she’s joking or not. “Missing Glenn that much?”

“I want to meet Nicola Murray, see if she’s as bad as you say. And y’know give Ollie a hard time, whilst getting paid.”

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow, okay? If you’re serious.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

**

“Are you finished with that?” she asks reaching for his coffee cup, clearing a bit of space on his desk. Not that anything’s actually going to happen, it’s just sort of fun pretending, imagining. She knows Malcolm though, he wouldn’t do anything so risky, not here. Anyway she’s just tidying, so everything’s in place for tomorrow when they come back in.

“Everyone’s gone home,” he says quietly, as if she isn’t well aware.

“Yeah,” Grey replies, trying to convince herself it doesn’t mean anything, it’s just an observation. Fantasies are just that, and they can talk about it all they want, it doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.

He stands up, goes to the door and locks it and all Grey can do is stand there in the middle of his office. She’s been here so many times. It’s like the rest of Downing Street, horribly imposing, kind of like a museum only with a lot more shouting and you can actually touch things. She looks around at the old paintings, the dark wood of the chairs and his desk. His desk. And it’s clearer than usual, even without her tidying things. Clearer than she’s ever seen it with only his computer and the green lamp left on it and her heart speeds at the implications.

“Is Sam really on holiday?” 

“You think I gave her time off so I could seduce you in my office, darling? You think a lot of yourself. It just seemed too good an opportunity to miss, and I meant what I said. I know I can trust you. This wasn‘t all some big plan. Anyway I could do this if Sam was here, tell you there was so much work on I needed you to come in, wait until she‘d gone…”

It’s like he’s read her mind and seen the way this fantasy starts, or perhaps she just isn’t nearly as imaginative as she’d like to be.

He moves behind her, arms crossing over her chest, chin resting on her shoulder and this is a really bad idea, a really, really bad idea that could quite possibly cost him his career if they were found out, but then how could they be, really?

“Now or never, Grey.” He presses himself against her back, because they don’t do subtle, because it’s a complete waste of time and leaves too much room for misunderstandings.

“You mean it?” As if she can’t hear it in his voice, feel it in his body language, his erection pressing quite obviously against her arse. 

He reaches down, slips his hand beneath her skirt and finds bare skin. “Stockings, darling?”

“Yeah well,” she turns her head and kisses him hoping to distract him, because yeah he has a point. She wouldn’t have put on a pair of stockings if she didn’t have ulterior motives, if she hadn’t been hoping for this and the idea hadn’t been there in her mind all day. Every time she’d gone into his office she’d half hoped he’d be alone, be inappropriate, take advantage of the situation, but there’s a difference between thinking about it and it actually happening.

“You little fucking prick tease,” he hisses, fingers trailing against the top of her stockings, slipping them beneath the thin fabric. “Making yourself look all respectable on the outside,” he laughs harsh and humourless and it makes her weak at the knees. “Flashing a bit of thigh when no one’s looking? Do you have any fucking clue what you do to me, Grey?”

She has a fair idea, but she’s well aware this is a rhetorical question, and even if it wasn’t she isn’t entirely sure she’d be able to form a whole sentence right now.

“You knew this was going to happen, so don’t pretend you’re surprised. It doesn’t suit you, being coy. So you can just stop that right now. Just say it, just tell me what you want. Tell me what you’ve been thinking about all fucking day.”

He knows her too well, and he never lets her get away with anything, bastard! And she could turn it round, ask him what _he’s_ been thinking about because they’ve both been thinking about it, how could they not have been? And he was the one that touched her like a lover rather than an employee and she really has been trying so fucking hard to do this properly, to treat it seriously, but it’s so difficult when all you’re aware of is your boyfriend in the next room, the room you’ve dreamt about being fucked in by him for _years_. Plus turning it round here, now, when he’s like this is a dangerous game, one she really doesn’t want to lose. “You’re such a cunt,” she says, and even that’s not exactly safe.

“Aye, so people are always saying. Never seems to have bothered you much though. Anyone ever tell you what a fucking masochist you are?” His hold tightens as he talks, head dips to kiss her neck roughly. “Say it,” he hisses.

“I want to be on your desk, I want to feel it pressing against my back. Every time I’ve come in I’ve just wanted you to send everyone away and fuck me on it.”

“Oh there’s so many things I want to do to you on my desk. So many things I’m _going_ to do to you. You can be terribly unimaginative sometimes.”

She closes her eyes and tries to focus on something other than his voice and how close he is to her. She feels the movement of his hand, those wonderful, elegant finger sliding higher up her leg, brushing against the fabric of her knickers and she knows they’re damp and she’s knows Malcolm, she can already see that impossibly smug smile on his face in her mind.

He pushes back against her, forcing her to move, practically marchong her towards his desk and she’s sure she should say something, but what? She doesn’t have any protests, all she has is his fingers and his body and the very real urge to be sandwiched between him and his desk.

He manages to guide her around his desk, to the front so he can sit back down in his chair, back to where they were when she came in, to where he wants her. He presses closer, pushing her against the edge of his desk, hands finding their way to her hips and lifting her easily, perhaps because she jumps up at the same moment, eager to be up there.

Grey’s legs part without any kind of thought. This is a very, very bad idea, but all there is in her mind is Malcolm, and not for the first time. She’s sure she had self-control once, but the thing about Malcolm is he turns her into a horny teenager, willing to do anything as long as he’s touching her.

He pushes her skirt up her thighs, pulls off her knickers (knickers he notes, not boxers, she really is playing the part) as she raises her hips from the surface of his desk, so keen, so willing. But then why wouldn’t she be? She’s risking nothing, but she wouldn’t risk his career she’s entirely too supportive for that. With her exposed he sits back down on his chair, leans back and looks at her perching there on his desk, waiting for his attention and there’s a certain kind of power in that, one he could take real advantage of if he wanted to. He could make her beg, or at least say please. He is Malcolm Tucker, after all. As it is he just stays where he is, looking at her appreciatively, licking his lips and knowing he has all night if he really wants it. Because what’s the other option - going back to the flat and having sex in the same rooms they’re always having sex in? Where’s the fun in that? Other than the whole having sex with her part, obviously.

Finally he manages to pull his gaze away, up to her face, and she’s just sitting there, waiting patiently because she knows him, she knows trying to rush him along will only result in him making her wait longer because he’s always had more restraint than she ever had. Plus here’s in charge - Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications for the Government of the UK and Northern Ireland. This isn’t like at the flat where she’s mainly the dominant one. Here he’s the master of his domain, he’s feared and powerful and respected, and perhaps that’s part of the reason she’s always had the desire to be fucked by him here, because he’s a completely different person in Downing Street, the person she first fancied with all his anger and passion - the alpha male and sometimes that’s what she wants - Malcolm Tucker the most fearer man in British politics, exactly as he is to the world at large.

He smirks, because he can’t quite help himself, because he knows he can get away with anything right now, which is a very dangerous position for him to be in. Not that he doesn’t want her desperately. She’s all he can think about, which is why he’s risking everything because she is worth it, not that it’s ever going to happen. He’s Malcolm fucking Tucker, even if they were to get caught he’d get himself out of it. He’s untouchable. 

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he says quietly, a little slip up perhaps, but fuck it. They don’t do compliments. They do abuse and banter, that’s why they work. But she is and sometimes he can’t quite stop himself from mentioning it. He pats the arms of his chair, assuming she can read his mind, because quite often she can.

“What?”

With a slight sigh he leans closer, long fingers encircling her ankles as he positions her, one foot either side of him, opening her up. No where to hide and it‘s almost enough to take his breath away. “Do I have to do everything myself? Christ it’s like being at work.” He twists his head though, kisses her calf through the fabric of her stockings and works his way up, shuffling to the edge of his seat so he can reach her more comfortably.

“Just one thing, darling,” he says pulling back millimetres away from her cunt, because even now he really can’t help being a bastard.

She looks down at him with a glare and part of him expects her to actually hit him, he’s unrepentant though, as he always is as long as she hasn’t actually removed herself from the situation. 

“Go on.”

“Mind the woodwork, aye? I’m not sure I can explain away scratch marks, you know? And it costs a fucking fortune to get a French polisher in.”

“Just the woodwork?”

“Course, when have I ever complained about you leaving scratch marks on me?” He raises his head, leans in as if he’s going to kiss her but stops. “I love your nails, darling, I’m just trying to be sort of sensible, you know? So you should probably try not to get any of your fucking lady come all over the upholstery either.”

“Want to put a sheet down, Malcolm?” 

“Oh I’m sure I can come up with other alternatives, ones that don’t require me moving.”

She tries very hard not to think about what he could possibly mean, tries to keep a clear head so she can at least keep some semblance of control. “Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“So…” she nods downwards pointedly, “whenever you’re ready, obviously.”

“Oh darling, I’m always ready, you should really know that by now.” Without another word he pulls her closer, dipping his head between her legs as she leans back, gripping the edge of his desk. His hands tighten around her ankles, an attempt to ground himself as he presses closer with his mouth, tongue sliding over and into her as she breathes heavily, noisily above him, and he can feel her trying to pull free, because normally she wraps her legs around his neck or back, holds him in place, but it’s different now, here. Whether this was the plan or not he is in charge, more or less, because here he just can’t _not_ be. It’s too ingrained in him.

“Fuck,” her hips buck and her hand slips and she almost collapses on to the desk as his tongue flicks over her in a way that makes everything narrow down to her cunt and his tongue.

He pulls away instantly, because he’s a bastard and because there’s still some slight fear about being found out. “Mind the lamp, darling.”

She scrambles to sit up again and she wants to kick him, but she can’t because he’s still holding on to her. It occurs to her, as she looks down at him, trying to catch her breath, trying to ignore her frustration and how close she was, that this was a really bad idea. Because he’s still Malcolm _fucking_ Tucker, and sometimes that’s exactly what she wants, but the choice has been taken out of her hands and while there are much, much worse things there’s the chance, while she’s still so _her_ that it’ll drive her crazy yet all she can do is look at him, all that frustration written across her face.

“Logistics are a fucker, aren’t they?” he says.

“You might be holding onto the wrong set of limbs.” He knows her well enough to be aware she can’t exactly be held responsible for any flailing arms or legs, surely?

“Oh it’s like that, is it?” He lets go of her legs, studies her for a few seconds but makes no move. He’s sorry that it has to be like this, but it really does. He could probably explain away a smashed lamp, but he’d rather not have to. He’d rather save that for when he really does throw one against the wall rather than strangle some idiot junior minister, though admittedly it‘s much more likely he‘ll just throw the lamp at said minister, but having Grey like this could be counted as a calming influence.. 

“It has to be, doesn’t it?” she says and it’s her that reaches for him, threads her fingers with his and pulls him up, because him going down on her _and_ holding on to her arms is going to be awkward and it’s really not that important in the grand scheme of things.

“Sort of,” he admits, as he stands up, takes her in. He’s blessed with the ability to read her face and she doesn’t look too upset, really she just looks a lot like she always does when they’re alone together - ever so slightly desperate. “Now or never, darling,” he says again. “But we don’t have to, if you want it to be perfect.”

She lets go of his hand, kisses his chest over his shirt because it’s the only part of him she can reach without moving. It’s perfect enough, but she’d rather shoot herself than say that out loud. “You know I’m always gonna chose now,” she says, as she pulls his shirt out from his trousers, untucking him and starting on his trousers because now really isn’t the time to take things slowly. 

“Always what I want to hear,” he says, looking down at her as she undoes his flies and the buttons of his boxers (or possibly hers because really they all look the same at 6am) she doesn’t bother pushing them down, as if she’s aware they might have to leap apart at any point during the proceedings and the less naked they are the better and he has to admire that kind of sense, that kind of forethought. 

She tangles her legs with his, pulls him as close as she can, strokes him and tilts her hips up pointedly, because she can’t wait any longer, because there’s still a faint fear that he might decide this whole thing’s too risky and there’s a certain kind of tension in her own mind, one she’s certain would be remedied by him fucking her.

He reaches for her waist, pulls her up so they’re on a level and thrusts into her as his fingers press into her skin, holding on to her firmly, arms tense as he holds her up and fucks her hard and fast, because this is who he’s supposed to be, none of that tender, slow Malcolm only Grey gets to see. Here he has to be in charge, doesn’t have to think about other people’s feeling’s because that’s who Malcolm Tucker _is_ here and she has to be expecting that, doesn’t she? She doesn’t seem to object though, her legs moving to wrap around his waist, attempting to hold herself up, to help him just a little. It’s not quite enough though, not that Grey’s heavy or anything but it’s taking more strength and concentration than he really wants to spend. Carefully he lowers her back on to the desk, bending his knees to follow her, unwilling to pull out for even a moment as he continues to fuck her, watching her the whole time, the intent look on her face, even as her arms slip back along the desk and she’s laying there, looking up at the ceiling and he should be sorry, or worried and he wants to see her face, of course he does, because she’s beautiful when she comes, but the fact she can’t manage to hold herself up gives him an amazing sense of pride. Normally he’s the one that can’t quite control himself once they’re having sex and it’s amazing to have the roles reversed. All he can do is smile as he continues to fuck her against his desk for all he’s worth, his fingers pressing into her so hard he can feel her hip bones sharp beneath them and he‘s well aware she‘ll have bruises there tomorrow. Still he can’t find it in himself to be utterly Downing Street Malcolm, because she’s Grey. It just isn’t in him not to make some kind of effort to get her to come, because really that’s the greatest feeling in his admittedly limited world. So he lets go on her with one hand, thumb stroking over her hip bone as the other moves between her legs, rubbing against her fast and hard because he’s too far gone to be slow, to work her up to it, and anyway he’s knows her, she doesn’t need slow, that’s one of the wonders of her, he doesn’t have to be slow and tender, hard and fast works with her. 

A few moments later and there’s the hitch in her breath he knows so well, the tightening of her legs and muscles around him and he should be worried about being heard, because Downing Street is never completely empty, there are cleaners at least, but a few hundred quid and they’re dealt with, and she it worth it, _this_ is worth it.

She’s loud when she comes though, a litany of swear words along with name, over and over again and before she’s quite finished he wraps his arms around her, pulls her up right to kiss her almost painfully hard even as she’s struggling to catch her breath. He waits until she’s finished, until she’s stopped shaking in his arms and pulls back, kissing her face lightly, removing himself from her with a sharp exhale of air.

“Live up to your expectations, darling?”

She can only nod, which he always counts as a good sign.

“I should call the car, seems like a good time to go home, aye?”

“Aye.”

“Might want to find you knickers first though, not sure I can explain those away without admitting to being a cross dresser. Very nice though, careful, darling I might start liking it, you all girly, eager to please,” he says as he tucks himself away, does up his flies and tucks his shirt back in, going back to being respectable and dignified before he has to leave the office.

She watches him, still a little breathless, her heart still beating a little too fast, but she rolls her eyes at him. “Well I hope you can handle your disappointment well, sweetpea,” she says, hopping of the desk and retrieving her underwear from the floor by his chair, slipping the on and adjusting her skirt. “Because that’s never going to happen. Not unless you’re paying me.”


End file.
